Chapter 43
“How do you know where I live?” I ask, angry but also… delighted that Lincoln is standing there.
“You were going home super late at night and you expected that I wasn't going to make sure you got home safely? Plus you didn't want to tell me that you were safe.”
“So you followed me home like a freaking creep?”
“So, when I was married to you, if I did something like that it wouldn't be creepy… but,”
“Yes, keyword ‘married’. You're not married to me anymore. So it is creepy,” I say, walking past him.
“I'll pay you to come with me.”
“Oh my God, Lincoln, you're not getting it!” I whirl around on him, hands outstretched in frustration before dropping them.
“You already have someone who can go with you,” I inform him, holding my hand out to my side at nothing in particular before dropping it again.
“And I already told you I don't feel comfortable with Sarah going with me.”
“What would have happened if we had not met each other again? Hmm?”
“Then I would have to go by myself.”
“There you go. You're so good at solving problems. Do that.”
“But you're here.”
“So you just automatically think that somehow obligates me to go with you because we were once married?”
“No. I said I would pay you.”
“And I said no.”
The silence hangs there. How many times did I bend over backwards to please this man? Is he that used to not hearing the word “no” from me?
Lincoln just stands there biting his lip, and I can see his chest rising and falling a little faster. “All right,” he says stiltedly as he walks past me back toward where he parked his car.
I stand there still, looking at the building with my back to him now.
Damn it.
Looking over my shoulder as he walks away sadly, in defeat, I feel like shit.
But why should I?
I start heading inside the building… then stop.
No way in hell I’m running out there to go get him, so I call him on the phone instead.
When he answers, his voice sounds tired. “What's up?”
“When is the appointment?” I ask.
I know this is a mistake. I just… oooo… I just have a feeling this is a mistake.
But he was once my family. And it’s literally a serious phobia for him.
I loved this man once, and if I’m eventually going to live in his house, which I probably will, because I do want to save up my money, and that’s the least he could do like he said, I’m going to have to compromise.
Even though I shouldn’t have to. Because he’s the one who caused us both to be in this situation.
“Tomorrow at noon. 12:30.”
“You can send me the address.”
“Are you not coming in tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yeah?” I reply, feeling stupid.
“Then we can just leave together.”
“Fine,” I blurt, ending the call as I head inside the building.
??
“You have to eat something,” I prod.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” he replies.
“I know you are, but try anyway. It’s not going to be heavy on your stomach, it's just some boiled eggs with some lettuce and tomato.”
“Gabby—”
“Just eat it.”
“You remember I get nauseous every single time.”
“Yeah, and you only end up throwing up when you actually have nothing in your stomach because you’re already nauseous from being hungry. So please. Why are we doing the same song and dance every single time?”
Lincoln rolls his eyes and stuffs the boiled egg, lettuce, and tomatoes into his mouth.
We drive to the clinic, or rather, I drive because Lincoln is shaking. The closer we get, the more he hyperventilates, and it’s to the point where I can tell exactly where the clinic is, even if I didn’t know, just from how hard he’s breathing.
I find a parking spot and look over to my right at him in the passenger seat.
He’s just staring out the windshield, his eyes glassy with water, his chest heaving as he tries to control his breathing and fails. Eventually he has to open his mouth to breathe. I can see his pulse in his neck.
“Lincoln,” I say slowly, trying to get his attention. It’s like he can’t hear me. “Link?” I call out to him again.
It’s so natural I don’t even think about it, my right hand moves over to hold his left where it sits flat against his thigh.
“Lincoln,” I say in a tone so gentle I haven’t used with him in a long time.
He blinks and looks over at me. “I—I know. I’m so pathetic. I should have grown out of this.”
“You’re not pathetic for having a legitimate phobia. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be right here with you,” I say, falling right back into the role I played as his wife whenever I had to go with him to the doctor.
He swallows, and then his face goes pale. “I got to throw up,” he says, panicking as he tries to unlock the door. He finally gets it open and leans out of the car.
He gags, but nothing comes out.
I wait. Usually it’s not this bad.
He’s having such a hard time that I get out of the driver’s seat, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and go to the passenger side. I crouch in front of him.
“Lincoln, look at me.”
He looks at me. His face is flushed, his dark brown hair already wet with sweat, the way he’s blinking like he’s about to pass out. He’s probably freaking out because he’s convinced they’re going to stick him several times.
“I’ll be right here with you,” I assure him.
His breathing slows only slightly as he looks at me, breathing through his nose, trying not to be nauseous.
“You’re not going to get up and leave me for revenge?” he asks, almost bitterly, like he expects me to.
“I’ve thought about it. Not going to lie. But… I have no interest in betraying you like that. When I give you my word I’m going to do something… I actually keep it, Lincoln.”
He swallows, and I know it doesn’t escape him what I’m implying.
I walk him inside the clinic, watching him bite his lip. He’s shaking so hard he can’t type on the tablet, so I have to fill out the forms for him.
I start asking him the questions.
The next section pops up, a full medical questionnaire, and it’s awkward as hell.
Questions like:
Are you sexually active?
How often?
How many partners in the last 12 months?
Do you engage in high-risk behavior?
Do you use protection?
Have you experienced erectile dysfunction?
Any symptoms of STIs?
Any unusual discharge?
Do you experience pain during intercourse?
Any history of sexual trauma?
Do you use recreational drugs?
Do you drink alcohol?
Any fainting episodes?
Any history of heart conditions?
Any family history of cancer?
Any history of anxiety disorders?
Any recent weight changes?
Any changes in appetite or sleep?
Any chest pain?
Any shortness of breath?
Any dizziness?
Any unexplained fatigue?
I stare at the screen, then look at him.
God… this is going to be fun.
Usually this kind of thing is run of the mill for me because I used to know all the answers to these questions when I was married to him. Now it’s going to be quite awkward asking them… specifically the ones about him being sexually active.
I look to my left at my ex-husband. His jaw is set, staring into some point in space as if he’s trying to disappear into it, white-knuckling the wooden arms of the waiting room chair.
Taking a big sigh, I cock my head, bracing myself.
“So… you want me to answer these questions for you right,” I ask.
“Yeah we’ve done this before.”
“We’ve also been away from each other for a couple of years and we’re not married anymore, so there are personal questions on here.”
“Yeah go ahead,” Link says, like he just wants to get it over and done with.
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